


Kill

by Hyoushin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Boys Kissing, Infidelity, Inspired By S4 Setlock, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 16:42:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6813907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyoushin/pseuds/Hyoushin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock watched them leave, she, with her red coat, and John, with his child cradled upon his chest.</p><p>One thought recurred to his mind: what had impelled him to do that?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kill

**Author's Note:**

> I felt sort of bad writing this. So watch out for OOC-ness and Infidelity. 
> 
> I saw the setlock s4 pics and Martin with the baby and I just lost it.

The visit was over. These days Sherlock endeavored to find pleasure in solitude. Sometimes, it was not that hard when he remembered the corrosive combination of platinum blond and vivid red. In fact, this was one of those times. Sherlock watched them leave, she, with her red coat, and John, with his child cradled upon his chest; a father and his progeny, looking like hostages.

Sherlock could not read him. He did not want to. One thought recurred to his mind: _what had impelled him to do_ that _?_

That—being something foreign to his character—an action disgustingly impulsive but persuasive for its suddenness. For one, fragile instant, there had been a starving silence devouring the control he prided himself on having at all times. He was the commander of his mind, but a supremely common factor had overthrown his tyrannical rule. His disdain for that which was common had made him overlook its lethality. His consequent carelessness had brought forth a quake in the foundation of who he was.

 _Will it be significant enough to change something?_ A question Sherlock Holmes had asked to himself afterward. Hope of any kind or in any amount did not inhabit his thoughts. Optimism was sinister, infantile and unneeded. There was no place for additives.

And, yes, right. It had been _wrong_ too. All of it.

He had broken his own code and that was wrong. He had broken societal conventions and that was wrong too, in theory; because, even though he guarded the code with which he dictated his life, he never did care for what society may think. But _John_ —

His mind skillfully began to paint the scene, not missing one detail as if to punish him, as if that could move him to remorse.

Intimacy was the murder weapon. His kindness, as always, the perpetrator.

Within a cherished environment, after alcohol burned their throats, a moment’s warmth suspended the present, deaccelerated it, creating a gap occupied by gazes of mutual understanding. It was there, in its contents, what should be avoided. John was used to it, Sherlock supposed. He, however, was unprepared for this force that nonplussed him. A jerk of his hand toppled his tumbler to the living room’s floor; the stridence of its fall in the midst of uncertainty, an unheeded presage. Because that force, in the guise of an impulse, collided with him, the impact pushing his body forwards to encounter heat, a surge of heat that domineered the initial slide of his mouth against his.

His lips felt a gasp that meant surprise and then alarm. Sherlock registered nothing, gulping down every bit of mixed breath. The hand grasping his dress shirt, which was lifted to restrain his spontaneous madness, hesitated. It was the final signal a hidden monster needed to surface. Sherlock dived in again, going deeper, intending to touch and capture whatever it was at the bottom. Both of his hands, gliding between skin and wool, shattered a soldier’s composure and a doctor’s patience.

_I want to take take take in a way I’ve never dared to do before_

No. There was no contrast with anything else. This was worse. The vilest temptation. For it did grow into a temptation which had poisoned him, by degrees, without his knowledge. How foolish was he, so impudent and incautious.

Inhibitions bowed and stepped back. His hands, emboldened by low secret sounds, found hips covered by jeans. They pulled, joining their bodies; pulsating below and directly against each other, the physical marker of their arousal. Soon, the sensation proved to be too much. The onslaught of his gluttony, to which he was unaccustomed, backfired on him. Sherlock severed the connection, but _what_ it awakened oozed from their bodies to hover between their mouths.

John trembled. Though the hand anchored in his black hair, and the one digging into his bicep, was heavy and steady. A conflict was already taking place in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said, in a voice he could not recognize, its resonance lined a savory feeling. It evinced an appetite, novel in its unexpectedness—for its constant absence in his past.

In response, John asked, “Are you?” 

“No.”

 “I want to hit you,” John said. He did not throw his words in anger, for permeating his sentences was acquiescence.  “How can you do this now?”

_You let me_

Sherlock could have uttered a thousand different answers, eloquent and perhaps credible yet none of them sounded honest. This one did, “I’m not good.”

John deserved honesty, deserved much more than what he would usually ask for. No one could be good enough.

“I still don’t believe that,” John said. A blunt fingernail caressed the sharp curve of his left cheek; two fingers stretched a curl, blue eyes watched it bounce.

As his lips grazed the edge of an ear, Sherlock warned, “You should. There _is_ evidence.”

“Evidence can be misconstrued,” John stated.

_No, you and I, we are guilty_

His body and his senses were far from sated, but were still indulging themselves in the proximity of the man confined in his arms. Impossible to resist John’s temporary passivity. Impossible to not just give in, take another piece, absorb his very essence. “I know you’ve learned from me. You think you can hide? Not from _me_.”

_Never, but you are clever, you perplex me even now_

And there it was, in John’s expression, the unrepentance of an innocent criminal. It only heightened this unseemly desire, gaining relevance and precedence over everything else, trespassing and going beyond his fortress composed of facts and logic.

The wails of a baby drifted up to them. Downstairs, a foreseen arrival.

Sherlock bruised his accomplice’s lips with his own, darkening their world, corrupting them once more, before erasing the evidence of their crime. He straightened their clothes. Ran a hand through his hair, curls fell into place. “Make tea.” He ordered.

John obeyed. Sherlock could restrain what he had been unaware it existed before. Chastened, it returned to its hidden chamber. However, this did not mean it would not wait for a chance to rebel.

With an impeccable appearance, Sherlock opened the door.

                                                                                                     


End file.
